Part of me imagined the crinkle in the corner of your eyes when you smiled into the phone. I could hear it. Me, here, writing about you again. This mystery man that I only picture certain parts of. Your eyes because that’s what I see of you when I look up from your chest. I can see your hands as well, how they’re such a different colour than mine, so much more interestingly sculpted. I used to watch my hands when I was little. My fingers so much longer than my palm. Hours of driving in a van with only so much patience for staring out the window at trees. I would frame the world whisking by on the endless road that we lived on. Flirtations of elegant angles copied from nature. I remember once trying to stand like a tree while my mother at the wheel took corners on the highway that knocked me over. My father was asleep in the front seat and it was so dark, I couldn’t see the plywood floor my white hands caught me on. Only the glow of the tapering fingers and flesh.
Now that my fingers fit, I don’t like my hands half so much.
I haven’t hung up yet. I’m typing this letter by letter, slowly, mostly with one of these hands. I want to know where you grew up, what your favorite flavour of ice-cream was when you were five. If oblique is a compliment or an acknowledgement of perhaps how I’m trying to hide in plain view of everyone who reads this.
You’re asleep now, or on the edge of it. As I am as well getting up tomorrow I should try to dream too.
Anyone up for flying a kite Monday??